


Of Moleskines and Music Students

by Hanzo279



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, glasses!liam, writer!zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:10:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanzo279/pseuds/Hanzo279
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis follows his gaze, his face breaking out into a knowing smirk, “I see”, he drawls, “he looks like he’s been up for three days trying to finish final papers and study for exams, and is surviving off coffee, red bull, and desperation.”</p><p>Zayn chuckles, because that is a scarily accurate description, and for all he knows, that’s exactly what’s been happening. </p><p>“I’m into it”, Louis says, still looking at the boy, although his stare is much more appreciative than it was before, which makes Zayn in turn see red. </p><p>“Back off bro”, Zayn growls, much more forcefully than he had intended, but seriously, Louis needs to back off, Zayn saw him first.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or: the one where Zayn is an aspiring novelist and Liam is the overworked music student that Zayn accidentally turns into his very own manic pixie dream girl before discovering the real thing is much better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Moleskines and Music Students

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brdfrdzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brdfrdzen/gifts).



> Hi brdfrdzen!
> 
> I loved this [prompt](http://brdfrdzen.tumblr.com/post/104204180855/champayne-papi-he-looks-like-hes-been-up) so much, I really did, and I hope you in turn like where I went with it. It's not at all what I expected I would be writing from this prompt, but I'm happy with it, and I hope it fulfills your own wants and needs.

Zayn has just finished his shift when he sees Liam for the first time.

 

He’s been working at this dingy little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop just off campus for a little over two months and has developed a routine. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening he clocks out at exactly 5 o clock, makes himself a large strong black coffee with two sugars, sits at the table in the back corner with the perfect view of the door and waits for inspiration.

 

His roommates think he’s creepy (correction, _Louis_ thinks he’s creepy, Harry pretends to agree with Louis, he really doesn’t think its that bad, but he’s Harry, and Harry _always_ agrees with Louis), but Zayn stands by his assertion that people watching is a perfectly acceptable way of spending one’s time, especially someone like Zayn who uses his people watching as a way of fueling his imagination, and finding his voice.

 

(The last agent he met with said he didn’t yet have a voice, a distinctive voice that said who he was or what his style was, or perhaps even more importantly who his _characters_ were. His writing, while good, isn’t specific enough to him apparently.)

 

(He handed in the same piece of writing as part of an assessment for his creative writing class and got full marks, go figure.)

 

So Zayn sits, and he watches, and he writes down what he sees.

 

It’s not just a list either, a haphazard record of the myriad of different people who walk through the door, no. What Zayn writes are fictionalized accounts of these people and their lives, who they are, where they come from, what drink they order and why. Every single person who walks through the door of his crappy little workplace has a whole other life that exists on the pages of Zayn’s very well loved moleskine.

 

This little exercise is really, more than anything else, about craft. About learning his craft, honing in on what works and what doesn’t. How important wording and phrasing things the right way becomes. And Zayn has learned an awful lot.

 

He’s learned that even if it is a normal and much used part of his vocabulary, “lad” is not something that reads well, unless it’s being used in dialogue.

 

(That’s another thing he has to work on, according to literary agent #4, his dialogue “needs to be more _punchy_ ”, Zayn walked out of that meeting wanting to _punch_ that pretentious asshole in his stupid bought and paid for face.)

 

He’s learned that _azure_ sounds and reads horribly. He once used it to describe the shade of Louis’ eyes, and was so horrified that he nearly ripped the page out of his book. He threw it across the room instead, and sat glaring at it until Louis came home, picked up the book, read what Zayn had written, and immediately demand it be changed because, “it’s an ugly word Zaynie, it makes me sound _ugly_.”

 

(And if there’s one thing Louis would never want to be mistaken for being, it’s ugly.)

 

He pulls his moleskine from his bag, carefully holding it together as he does so. It’s old, the binding coming undone, pages falling out, and he loves it. It’s his most prized possession and he takes it everywhere. His mother had given it to him when he left for university, along with a fountain pen, claiming that “every great writer needs a decent pen and some paper to write on.” She smiles every time she sees it, and in fact half the pages are made up of stories from back home in Bradford.

 

London in so very far away, this little book is as much a part of home as it is of his life in this city so vastly different from everywhere and anything he’s ever known before.

 

He’s in the middle of inventing a reason for the teenage guy with the plugs at the table next to him to be knitting a beanie (his grandmother taught him and wool is much cheaper to buy then a new hat), when he hears the bell above the door chime. He looks up expecting to see Louis coming to drag him home so he can make dinner (it’s his turn and Louis and Harry have been talking about ‘Samosa Night’ _all week_ ), when a boy walks in.

 

The first thing Zayn takes notice of is how tired he looks, his tall broad frame slightly slumped under the weight of his laptop bag, his eyes (whose colour Zayn can’t make out from so far away) sleep mussed behind his glasses.

 

He knows he’s staring, not analyzing like he normally does, but outright _staring_ at this boy ( _man_ , Zayn corrects himself as he looks him over, he might look like he’s Zayn’s age, but he’s most definitely a man), as he meanders up to the counter and orders, but he can’t help it because the guy, with his shoulders, and tan, and the tattoo Zayn can see peaking out from the pushed up sleeve of his hoodie, and the _glasses_ ,is fucking _gorgeous_.

 

Zayn watches as he picks up his drink and walks over to a table on the other side of the café, giving Zayn a very nice view of just how perfectly his thighs fill out his jeans, and then when he turns to sit, his arse ( and perhaps even more importantly, his Calvins). He takes a sip of his drink, pulls his laptop out of his bag, plugs his headphones in, and Zayn is hit with a bout of inspiration the likes of which he’s never known.

 

He turns to a new page, and starts writing.

 

Zayn never gives any of the people he writes about names. It feels false somehow, because they’re real people, and even though what Zayn writes is not the truth, it feels strange imposing a name on them as well. He doesn’t really care enough, normally, to find out their names. He wants to know this boy’s name.

 

Instead, he writes about what he’s drinking (the same as Zayn, strong black coffee, because as beautiful as he is, the poor guy is visibly exhausted), what he’s doing on his laptop (university work, something artistic maybe, or better yet, something that requires use of those _hands_ ), what’s he’s listening to, (Frank Ocean, for no other reason that Zayn wants him to be the kind of person who listens to Frank Ocean).

 

He writes about his tattoos, because he can see more than one now, how he came to get them and what they mean, he writes about where he’s from, not specifics because he doesn’t know them, but the kind of neighbourhood, the kind of family. He’s so caught up in writing about this boy that he doesn’t even notice when Louis sits down in front of him.

 

“Zayn”, Louis calls, flicking the end of Zayn’s pen.

 

“ _Fuck_ , what?” he snaps, breaking out of his hot boy in glasses related stupor.

 

“I want samosas Zaynie, Trisha Malik’s famous samosas, and _someone_ promised he’d be home on time to make them.”

 

“I know”, Zayn sighs, “I just got, inspired”, he says glancing over at the boy, who is typing away at his computer.

 

Louis follows his gaze, his face breaking out into a knowing smirk, “I see”, he drawls, “he looks like he’s been up for three days trying to finish final papers and study for exams, and is surviving off coffee, red bull, and desperation.”

 

Zayn chuckles, because that is a scarily accurate description, and for all he knows, that’s exactly what’s been happening.

 

“I’m into it”, Louis says, still looking at the boy, although his stare is much more appreciative than it was before, which makes Zayn in turn see red.

 

“Back off bro”, Zayn growls, much more forcefully than he had intended, but seriously, Louis needs to back off, Zayn saw him first.

 

Louis holds his hands up in surrender, a shit eaten grin on his face, “okay Zaynie, I promise I won’t steal away your new muse. He is your new muse isn’t he?” He asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.

 

Zayn blushes, looking down at the pages of his book that are littered with this boy whose name he doesn’t even know, “no”, he mutters, embarrassed.

 

Louis doesn’t look convinced, but because he’s a wonderful friend, (not that Zayn would ever like, _tell him that_ , or something), he lets it go, “alright then. C’mon home time, samosas, you promised.”

 

“Yeah I promised.”

 

Louis stands as Zayn gathers his things together, putting his book carefully back into his bag. He casts a look towards the boy, who is now no longer typing but looking pensively at something on the screen, headphones still firmly in place, Zayn sighs and follows Louis out the door.

 

“Oh wait, I forgot something”, Louis chirps, dashing back inside before Zayn even has time to register what’s happening.

 

He watches in horror as Louis walks straight up to the boy, who startles a bit as Louis makes himself known. He takes one ear bud out and they exchange a few words, before Louis turns to look at Zayn, a triumphant smile on his face.

 

Zayn is in the middle of plotting Louis’ very grisly demise when his now former best friend steps back outside.

 

“His name is Liam and you’re a moron”, Louis says, walking down the street leaving Zayn to follow him helplessly home.

 

…

 

Harry insists on helping Zayn make dinner, so Zayn lets him make the dough for the samosas while he chops the onions, because Harry’s particularly sensitive to them, apparently, and Zayn is a big enough push over that he doesn’t try to fight him on it.

 

Louis sits on the counter, far away from Zayn and the onions because he’s as much of a wimp as Harry is, and tells in exquisite (though not entirely correct) detail the story of Zayn and his new muse.

 

“I mean you should have seen him Hazza, he was _swooning_ , not that I blame him the guy is very nice to look at” (Harry bristles at that a bit, but Louis places a comforting hand on his shoulder and he melts), “and he’s perfect for Zaynie. Completely. He has a Batman phone case.”

 

Zayn looks up at that. _Batman_. Liam likes Batman.

 

It’s official. He’s perfect.

 

“For fucks sake Zayn, stop mooning, you didn’t even have the balls to talk to him, so stop planning your wedding and finish making my dinner.”

 

Zayn scowls and throws some onion at Louis who squawks indignantly and promptly falls off the workbench.

 

Later, once Louis has retired to his room to work on an essay (mental illness and it’s relation to family dynamics in _Hamlet_ ), Harry turns to Zayn, who has been sitting silently leafing through his book, looking for phrases worth keeping or passages that need reworking.

 

“So what was he really like?”

 

The thing about Harry is that he’s even more of a romantic than Zayn. Zayn’s approach to his work has become almost clinical. He doesn’t write for love anymore, he writes out of sheer necessity. He is physically incapable of not writing, he needs it to function, almost as much as he needs to smoke an entire packet Marlboro Reds after completing a tough assignment.

 

Harry doesn’t want to know the process, he doesn’t want to know the reason why Zayn does what he does, or how he does it. He just wants the stories, wants to see the world the way Zayn sees it, wants to understand language the way Zayn uses it. It can come as no surprise he is a Philosophy major, with an outlook on art and life such as that.

 

“He was”, Zayn starts, before pausing. What _was_ Liam like?

 

He doesn’t know, is the truth.

 

He didn’t even say two words to him, just stared at him across the room and fantasized about his hands and all the things he could be doing with them.

 

But then Zayn thinks back to how it made him feel, watching Liam bopping his head along to the music coming from his laptop, his eyes sleepy yet focused, and he knows.

 

“He was beautiful.”

 

“Is that it?” Harry asks, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. He clearly was expecting a more elaborate answer.

 

“Isn’t that enough?”

 

“I s’pose it is”, Harry shrugs smiling, his cheeks just starting to dimple.

 

…

 

Zayn has just finished with his shift when he sees Liam for the second time.

 

It’s 4:52 pm on Thursday afternoon, and Zayn has been up since 7 because he had class at 8:30.

 

He’s about ready to kill someone he’s so tired, he really is.

 

He’s fucking about on his phone, opening apps and then closing them again because he can’t decide what he’s actually looking for, when he hears someone clear their throat in front of him.

 

There’s a blonde guy looking at him, an empathetic smile on his face.

 

“Sorry”, Zayn chokes out, an embarrassed flush colouring his cheeks as he pockets his phone and pulls himself to his full height. “What can I get you?”

 

“No problem mate, no problem”, the boy assures, a wide smile on his unassumedly handsome face, Irish accent lilting out so musically, Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if he can sing.

 

“I’ll get one Irish Breakfast tea for meself, milk and one sugar, one Earl Grey tea, no milk one sugar, and a coffee however you take it, because you look like you want to hurt someone, and I think it might help combat that urge.”

 

Zayn laughs nodding his head slightly (its true) and thanks him, putting the order through the machine and sending Niall (it suits him, he thinks) over to wait for his drinks.

 

When he clocks out, instead of going to sit at his usual table, he walks over to where Niall is sitting along the wall, closer to the door.

 

“Hey”, he begins, blushing slightly when Niall looks up and grins at him, “I just wanted to say thanks for the coffee.”

 

Niall shakes his head, “you’re most welcome, mate, truly”, he says, and Zayn believes him, he’s so earnest about it, “me mate hasn’t got here yet, do you wanna join me while I wait?”

 

Zayn smiles and sits. He learns that Niall is a music student, and that the friend he’s meeting is as well. They’re working on their final project for the year, where they have to write a song and then mix it in two different ways.

 

“It’s really cool though, because I play guitar, and he plays a little guitar, and the piano, and he’s learning the drums, and he’s got just the _best voice_. Seriously, the _best_. I could not have lucked out with a better partner.”

 

“Sounds like you like him”, Zayn teases.

 

“I do”, Niall beams, before noticing Zayn’s smirk, “not like that. Not like that. I mean _he_ is, sort of, but I kind of like this girl that he introduced me to, real cute, Geordie, they’ve been friends for a while.”

 

“Sort of?” Zayn questions.

 

“He’s bi. Or was it pan? No it’s bi, perfect three on the Kinsey scale. He told me.”

 

“Oh, cool”, he hesitates for second before admitting “I’m a six.”

 

Niall raises a confused eyebrow.

 

“On the Kinsey scale, I’m a six.”

 

Niall nods, “To each their own, bro, to each their own. Oh, here he is. Payno! Dude, your tea’s getting cold”, he yells, and Zayn turns to see Liam walking through the door.

 

Liam who occupies seven whole pages of Zayn’s book, who has not been far from his mind since that fateful moment on Tuesday that on reflection felt like it belonged in a nineties Sandra Bullock movie.

 

“Thanks Nialler”, he breathes out, dropping rather unceremoniously into the seat across from Niall, and next to Zayn, while Zayn takes a second to process.

 

Black Country accent, deep voice, lovely cadence.

 

He’s fucked.

 

“Who’s this?”

 

Zayn turns in his seat to face Liam properly, taking in all of the detail he didn’t get to see two days ago. His eyes are a deep brown, the colour of coffee with the tiniest dash of milk, and they’re wide and questioning behind his thick-framed glasses. His lips are full and pink, his jaw covered by a perfectly trimmed beard, is strong. And he has a birthmark, small, almost unnoticeable, right next to his Adam’s apple.

 

Zayn wasn’t kidding about what he told Harry. Liam is beautiful.

 

Just _beautiful_.

 

“I’m Zayn”, he answers, holding out his hand.

 

Liam smiles widely, his cheeks pushing up and his eyes crinkling as he gives Zayn’s hand a firm shake, “‘m Liam. Nice to meet you.”

 

“You too.”

 

“I’ve just been telling Zayn here all about our project”, Niall tells Liam, and Liam looks at Zayn who nods in confirmation.

 

“It sounds amazing”, he agrees, “I’m very impressed.”

 

Liam blushes slightly, and that’s not fair, he’s not allowed to be cute as well as sexy, you only get one. Everyone knows that.

 

“Thank you. We try”, he says, and he’s humble too.

 

Cute, sexy, humble, and can sing. What did Zayn do in a past life to deserve this?

 

“I’ll leave you two to get on with your work”, he says grabbing his bag as he stands, “it sounds like you have a lot of work to do.”

  


“That’s not even the half of it”, Niall pipes up, “this idiot here also has another composition due next week, _and_ has a practical assessment on Tuesday afternoon.”

 

Jesus, no wonder he’s so tired.

 

“Well I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday from 1 till 5, so maybe I’ll see you guys’ around.”

 

“Maybe”, Liam says, a small smile, which Zayn actually prefers to the beaming one he had received earlier, gracing his stupidly handsome face.

 

He waves goodbye, and goes straight home to write about Liam the overworked music student, with the brown eyes, brilliant smile, and that all important Batman phone case.

 

…

 

Zayn has barely begun his shift when he sees Liam for the third time.

 

“Hi Zayn”, he chimes, as he sidles up to the counter at 1:38 on Tuesday afternoon.

 

“Hi Liam. What can I get you?”

 

“Earl Grey, one sugar.”

 

Zayn smiles, puts the order through, and waves the next customer over.

 

She’s still deciding though, so he takes the opportunity to discreetly check out Liam.

 

Black Henley, black jeans, black Chelsea boots. No glasses. He looks good. _Really_ good.

 

He should always wear Henley’s, if they look this good on him, he really should consider burning any shirt he owns that isn’t a Henley.

 

Liam picks up his tea, smiling at Jesy, the barista, waving to Zayn as he walks towards the door.

 

“Wait, Liam!” Zayn calls, suddenly remembering something.

  
Liam turns, looking at Zayn expectantly.

 

He blushes (he seems to be doing that a lot lately) before saying “good luck with your performance today.”

 

The answering smile he gets can only be described as brilliant. Honestly, no other word could possibly try to do it justice.

“Thanks”, he replies, letting himself back out into spring air.

 

“So”, Jesy laughs, a mischievous glint in her eye, “when’s the wedding?”

 

“Shut up”, Zayn retorts, with no force behind it whatsoever. He’s too busy trying to keep the almost giddy smile off his face.

 

…

 

Zayn has _almost_ finished his shift when he sees Liam for the fourth time.

 

He comes bounding through the door like an excited puppy at 4:26 pm, the café is practically empty, Zayn the only person still on shift.

 

“Zayn, hi, oh my god”, he beams, he’s so happy he’s practically bursting out of his skin, and Zayn is so endeared by him it’s crazy.

 

“Hi”, he grins, “I’m guessing it went well?”

 

He nods, crinkly smile not leaving his face, “It went really well, I’ve never sang so well in all my life.”

 

“I’m happy for you.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Zayn can’t stop looking at him, his infectious cheerfulness and warmth radiating from his entire body.

 

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” He asks, because as happy as he is that Liam payed him this little visit (very fucking happy indeed), twice in one day cannot be a coincidence.  


 

“Yeah, actually there is,” Liam admits, his countenance changing almost immediately from impossible excitement to something else Zayn’s not sure he likes that much. It feels like nervousness, but it can’t be, why would Zayn make him nervous? “I wanted to ask if maybe you’d go to dinner with me?”

 

Zayn so busy trying not to notice just how full and red Liam’s lower lip looks when he bites it, that he almost misses the question.

 

He heard it though, loud and clear.

 

“When?”

 

Liam smiles and shrugs, “what are you doing after your shift?”

 

Zayn grins beatifically, “nothing.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

…

 

 

He’s been working at this dingy little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop just off campus for a little over four months and Zayn’s routine has changed. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening he clocks out at exactly 5 o clock, makes a large strong black coffee with two sugars, and an Earl Grey tea with one sugar sits at the table in the back corner with the perfect view of the door and waits for his boyfriend.

**Author's Note:**

> And they all lived happily ever after. And I would know. I wrote it.


End file.
